


a token of his favor

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Jousting, Knight Keith (Voltron), M/M, Minor Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Royal Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28224066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: His offer to Keith today is as shy as a maiden’s: a silken handkerchief, black edged with silver thread, with crest of the Shiroganes, a lion with its maw stretched in a roar, surrounded by pinpricks of stars.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 124





	a token of his favor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardropdream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/gifts).



> Thank you, Robin, for the lovely holiday card and for sharing your sheith fics! <3

As a child, Shiro loved jousting. He loved the bright colors of the flags and flower-twined poles, sharing a bench with his friends from faraway kingdoms, and the exhilaration in the air that carried everyone from morning to late evening. Sometimes they even went on for days, tables literally groaning with food and festivities afterwards, pageants and melees and dancing.

When he grew older, his expected presence became more of a duty—no matter how ill he felt or tired as the clock went far beyond the twelfth hour, he could not leave or be seen without a smile. He much preferred being in the ring rather than confined to the stands, ever afraid of offending someone by offering (or not) a favor or clapping at the right time or being scolded for not handing out the ribbons “decorously.”

And—he suspected Keith knew, but never said—it was another thing that proved he was not “weak of heart,” as his physicals and parents and diplomats feared—for he collected more staves than any heir at the time.

Now, Shiro is considered “too precious” to participate in jousts. Really, there’s no danger—the tournaments lances are designed to splinter on impact—but in wartime, no one on a throne can be spared.

This tournament is a distraction, really, from the forces creeping into the land like storm clouds. Zarkon’s reign grows with every passing day, and the allies they’ve managed to gather are fighting with all their might. He himself lost an arm, and only by the grace of Princess Allura’s magic, can still wield a sword—and is alive at all.

But he gets to spend many days with his dearest friends, Allura being one of the first to arrive. Rumors swirl around them when he offers her one of the best guest wings in the palace, as usual, which amuses them both—Allura has her own suitors and Shiro is decidedly not romantically interested in women.

It would be a grand alliance, his council presses him. Altea could provide them with magnificent knowledge and trade resources, while Atlas has many riches and armies to be a handsome, mutual exchange.

Yet he only has eyes for one person.

His offer to Keith today is as shy as a maiden’s: a silken handkerchief, black edged with silver thread, with crest of the Shiroganes, a lion with its maw stretched in a roar, surrounded by pinpricks of stars. Shiro knows embroidery—one physician recommended it to strengthen the muscles in his fingers—but to present Keith with his work would be akin to handing him a dirty dishtowel. 

Keith had not been raised in court, but everyone knows what this offering means. He does not seem like one for perfumed satchels or songs performed for him in the courtyard—yet Shiro is a romantic. He grew up with tales of knights bringing back a white hart for their beloved, or fetching a cure from a stream from the highest mountain, or battling beasts with an enchanted sword.

 _Now we live in very boring times,_ Keith once joked. It had been almost bitter-sounding, Shiro’s arm newly cauterized after the battle, wrapped in a piece of torn cloth, head blazing occasionally with fever, Keith urging Shiro to sip from his own water skin.

This handkerchief, Shiro does not say when he presents it to Keith, is stewed in folklore: he’d worn it for seven days underneath his clothing, so that Keith may inhale the soul of his skin.

Keith takes it gently between his gloved fingers, turning it in his hands. He looks very grand today, in Shirogane colors and armor that Shiro knows Keith polished himself, despite having the resources and the power to have a page do it for him. Others might it peculiar that one of the youngest knights in history does such menial tasks as saddling and brushing his own horse, while some slyly attribute it—not in Keith's hearing—to his humble upbringing. 

“For me?" 

“Yes,” Shiro says softly. “For you. If you like.”

The last time he’d been alone with Keith like this was in his tent, close to death, clothing cut to shreds to better clean his wounds. Twice in the night, he’d heard Keith weeping, felt a head rest tentatively against his chest. It had been Keith who had brought back Sendak’s bloodied battle standard, shrugging off triumphant knocks to the shoulders and proffered tankards of beer, choosing to stay with Shiro amid the celebrations.

 _Don’t die,_ he’d heard Keith whisper. _Please. You saved me once; let something, anything, save you, even if it means taking me._

Keith now wraps the handkerchief once, around his hand. “Thank you. I… it is an honor to represent the House of Shirogane.”

Shiro rolls his eyes, a habit he's tamped down from childhood but seems to come out in moments like these. “Please, Keith, no formalities. I selected you because you are the best knight, and the most loyal. It is an honor for _you_ to represent us.”

Keith’s face darkens. “I do not deserve—”

“Please, no polite words,” Shiro half-scolds. “It was you who brought down Sendak’s army, and before that, you were one of the youngest to hold the title of a knight in many centuries.”

“Only because—”

“I may have spotted you knocking down James Griffin and given you a chance, but you took that and did it on your own,” Shiro interrupts. It’s a familiar, old argument. “I would have no other. And throughout the years, you’ve been… you’ve been very dear to me, Keith.”

Keith looks up at him, then at the handkerchief. His fingers caress the fabric, once, and his lips part. “Shiro, I…”

“Lord Shirogane!” someone calls through the door. “Your presence is expected soon.”

That seems to break the spell; Shiro straightens up, startled, as Keith sweeps into a graceful kneel, head hanging over a bended knee. “My lord. I must leave you.”

Shiro swallows back what he desperately wishes to say, and instead nods. “Good luck,” he almost whispers. 

* * *

Shiro greets Allura and the others in the box closest to the action under the edifice and shaded roof. Allura cares little for protocol, but greets him with a curtsy, mindful of the rumors, but Pidge crushes Shiro in a relieved hug. Normally, she'd be too young to travel this far, especially in wartime, but Shiro knows there's simply no stopping her, especially when she’s already designed a great many war machines and architectural improvements. That, and her beloved brother has come back for the day; he can never miss a tournament. 

Hunk and Lance bow, but Hunk slips Shiro a bundle of his own homemade pastries and sweetmeats, and Lance a generous sip of his cordial. All know from his letters that he is alive and well, but he can see from their eyes that they simply wanted to confirm it for themselves.

“No Keith?” Lance asks.

Shiro finds himself blushing. “He’s in the lists today.”

The trumpeter harkens, and Shiro quickly stands and gives a short speech: how he’s gladdened to host his friends and allies for this glorious tournament, how he looks forward to seeing the victor, how they will prevail against Zarkon. He then turns to Allura, who gracefully lifts her rose-pink handkerchief and drops it, culminating the start of the tournament. As is tradition, all the knights prance on horseback around the ring once, with great fanfare, some tossing roses and other flowers into the cheering crowd.

And as Keith’s red stallion trots past, sharpened hooves prancing high, Shiro’s heart sinks. Keith is not wearing his favor, not like Prince Lotor, whose pink silk proudly shimmers on his upper right arm.

Lance looks discomfited too, though he takes great care to only smile in front of Allura. He does not have the bloodline or the military skills of Lotor, but is charming in his own right as a courtier and has grown more serious since inheriting his own small land, riding out to meet with the tenants and even taking up a plow himself at harvesttime.

Allura laughs often with Lance, something Shiro rarely sees. Like Shiro, she was put on the throne before properly coming of age—a difficult situation in any circumstance, but even more so in wartime—and has so few that know her for more than the royal blood that runs through her veins.

Shiro sinks into his chair. For once, he finds himself picking at Hunk’s sweets and smiling only little amongst his friends.

The crowd, meanwhile, seems to enjoy the clashing of spears, the thundering of hooves, occasionally booing when a knight they don't approve of trots into the ring or is caught with a handful of dirty tricks, such as fastening themselves to the saddle. Pidge cheers the loudest for Matt, who showboats with a shower of roses, and Allura smiles as Lotor easily unseats opponent after opponent. Lance, Shiro notices, is clapping politely, but turning more often to chat with Hunk, who’s patting his arm sympathetically.

“Are you all right?” Allura asks softly.

Shiro manages a smile. “I think I did not get much rest last night,” he lies.

“Managing a kingdom is hard,” she agrees. “Father prepared me the best he could before he died, and Coran is always helpful, but there is so much I do not know. Lotor has been… most helpful.”

“Do you ever worry? About his father?”

“He is not like Zarkon,” she says defensively. “He was banished and Zarkon’s own army attacks him on sight.”

“Still,” Shiro begins. Perhaps Allura is right, but he has trouble trusting anyone in close proximity to Zarkon, and Lotor is too charming to be completely trustworthy, in his silkier, slicker way than Lance, and his tactics done by his generals in battle that aren't exactly honorable. 

“You do not judge Keith, based on his blood,” she reminds him.

Shiro grits his teeth. “Why should I? He is—my friend.” 

“As is Lotor,” she says.

He turns his attention to Keith, who knocks yet another knight out of his saddle. “Keith and I have known each other for years, and he saved my lands from being overcome by Zarkon's troops. He has proven himself time and time again.” Keith rides past without a glance, and Shiro looks away. “He may have my favor, but he is valuable in his own right.”

Allura is silent.

The tournament goes on, and very soon, it looks like it is between Keith and Lotor for the prize. There are rippling roars from the audience, some throwing wilting flowers at their favored knights. Lotor catches a few with a deft hand, grinning, while Keith awkwardly waves, doing his best not to hunch in the saddle. 

They are evenly matched: Lotor wins the first round and Keith wins the second. Shiro finds himself clutching the edge of his chair, doing his best to look neutral—Lotor, after all, is an ally—as Lotor dusts himself off, swinging his long hair over his shoulder. (Shiro wonders how Lotor deals with it in battle.) He bends over his horse, mutters something, and calls his page over with a sharp whistle.

Keith pats his stallion once on the neck, as the page leads Lotor’s horse out of the ring and returns with another, with a shining white coat already saddled with Lotor's coat of arms, this time with a rose entwined with a junibery blossom—something that brings a bright red blush to Allura's cheeks and a brief frown to Lance's face. 

“Hmmm,” Hunk mutters, as Lotor gracefully swings himself up and holds his hand out for a lance. 

“His horse must have gotten a stone, or is exhausted,” Allura notes.

“It’s a nice one,” Pidge notes, which is a high compliment from someone who's called horses "creatures of below" more than once. “I wonder if it’s a gift for you, Allura.”

Lance says nothing.

Strangely, when the third and final round begins, Keith’s horse seems uneasy; Shiro knows Keith tamed the horse as a foal from the wilds and has not had any trouble, not even in the most chaotic heat of battle. Yet the horse is pawing the ground, tossing its mane and snorting loud enough for them to hear in the stands.

But Keith, stubborn as ever, continues the charge, even as his mount bucks—just enough unbalance for Lotor to crash into him full-force with a great clamor and clang.

Keith tumbles hard from the saddle, helmet rolling onto the ground, as the crowd gasps, some screaming in horror. His horse runs off, bucking towards Lotor, as attendants swarm before it can trample Keith.

“Lotor cheated,” Lance mutters, already rising to his feet.

Allura frowns. “That is a very serious accusation to make,” she says, but doubt colors the edge of her voice.

“It’s a mare,” Lance says shortly, “in heat. An old trick, one that I’ve used myself.”

Shiro doesn’t hear the rest, already running down to the ring, his guards thundering behind him. Lotor is still in the saddle, looking unperturbed, his own horse stomping in place.

Keith is still on the ground, and Shiro kneels beside him as the attendants remove Keith’s breastplate, checking for wounds, and silk cloth comes spilling out like blood.

Shiro’s throat tightens—he recognizes his handkerchief.

“Keith,” he gasps, uncaring of the eyes on them.

“I’m all right,” Keith says, with a short cough. “Had worse. Get Lotor’s damned horse out of the ring, and I can calm mine.”

Shiro sharply raises his voice in a command, Lotor calmly trotting away without a backward glance. Keith makes a few clicks as his horse trots over, putting its nose on Keith’s shoulder. Keith reaches up to pat its neck and rises to his feet, fighting down a grimace.

“I’m all right,” he repeats, clutching the handkerchief in his fist. “I’m all right.”

Shiro knows better than to make Keith lean on him, but once they’re out of sight, grabs Keith’s arm to steady him. “Are you really all right? Truly? You…”

“It’s only a fall, just a shock,” Keith says, looking more embarrassed than anything. Luckily, the stables are mostly empty, with a few nobles’ horses standing bored in their stalls.

Shiro turns to the guards, who are anxiously milling around the entrance. "Leave us. Escort the princess and my companions down safely, and make sure Prince Lotor is carefully watched. He will not receive the championship purse until matters are resolved." He clears his throat. "Begin the entertainments without me, and... prepare an extra empty seat on the high table." 

His guards blink at him, but hurry off without protest to obey his orders.

Keith looks up at Shiro, eyebrows raised. "Lotor will not be pleased." 

“He did not win, and I won’t give him the honor,” Shiro says. He looks at last at the handkerchief, slightly dusty from the arena. “You did have it. When I saw you ride out…”

“I wanted it close to my heart, not waved around like a flag as Lotor did,” Keith replies, not looking at him, but his eyes flash fiercely as they do in battle. “As if I do not fight without constantly thinking of you. I don’t need a piece of cloth to remind me that I…”

“That you…?” Shiro echoes, hardly daring to breathe. 

Keith’s voice is low. “I cannot… no, I do. I swore to the gods I would never ask for anything else if you lived, and even if I wished—oh, I do wish—lords don’t marry their knights.”

Shiro feels as if he's the one who's tumbled from his horse. “Marry?”

Keith half-buries his face in his horse’s neck. “It’s foolish. But when you offered your favor, I started to dream again, and wanted to win the tournament for you. But it cannot happen—”

“You’re a war hero, Keith, do you forget? You can have anyone. And when Zarkon is nothing but a distant memory, I want you by my side. If you wish.”

Keith’s hand comes up to grip Shiro’s hand still clutching his arm. “I do wish.”

His lips meet Shiro’s, and it is decidedly not chaste but filled with passion that goes beyond any of the songs. It is not in a rose-filled garden under a full moon or a glittering ballroom filled with rich music, only in dusty stables with whickering horses and scattered hay, Keith almost indecently stripped of his upper armor, Shiro making noises as a proper lord should not.

But neither of them care. There may be a war to fight, a tournament outcome to settle, allies to placate, yet this moment is theirs alone, a pledge stronger than any said in a chapel, a promise that will last a lifetime. 


End file.
